Rectifying the Resurrection
by Skittlehog
Summary: Draco Malfoy delves into magic that is greater than himself and the outcome is potentially deadly. Upon realization Draco admits his mistake to the only person that is likely to understand, but also the most unlikely: Harry Potter.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is the first fanfic I've managed to produce in a very long time. Please review and let me know what you think: What you liked, what you didn't, that there should be more Weasley cameos, etc. Constructive criticism is welcome.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter.

_**Rectifying the Resurrection  
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By Skittlehog

_Dedicated to Lylian_

_. . ._

The crash in Godric's Hallow was muffled by the sounds of the rain crashing against the cobbled streets. The man who had Apparated pushed himself up quickly as the blood from his temple was washed away by the downpour. His robes dragged through the mud, and he struggled to maintain his balance as grey eyes searched frantically for the right cottage. Under no other circumstances than what had brought him there on this night would the wizard dare ask anything of the one he was seeking. As if his reputation and name weren't tainted enough, the words that were to be relayed would ruin him.

Harry opened the door after the third thunderous bang and could not conceal his surprise at finding Draco Malfoy on his doorstep. What threw him off completely was that there was no wand pointed in his face. The wizard was hunched over, sopping wet and the only thing Harry could think to do was step aside and let him cross the threshold. Draco obliged, bringing with him dirty footprints and the stench of mingled blood and mud.

Once in the lighting of the cottage was Draco visage revealed. Dark circles encompassed his eyes and he once again retained the green discoloration of his skin that was present in their sixth year. The only recognizable differences were numerous cuts that lined his jaw and neck.

"You don't look –er— why are you here?" asked Harry, shutting the door.

"I…"

The words that had been so clear in his head moments ago now burned and bubbled like Bubotuber pus on his tongue. Almost regrettably, Draco lifted his eyes and with a scowl that was characteristic of himself in Potter's presence, fought through the burning desire to throttle him and said, "Potter, I need your help."

He had asked for help and he hadn't burst into flames or dropped dead.

It was someone else who choked, sputtering as he tried to dislodge the copious amount of pie in his throat. Draco kept his eyes fixated on Harry's scar as his breathing only became heavier and his scowl deeper as Ron flailed his arms in his peripheral vision.

"What kind of help?" asked Harry, his words laced with suspicion.

"What have you been tampering with now, Malfoy?"

Draco jerked his head towards the couch, where Ron had just spoken having recovered from his choking fit.

"It's nothing illegal," spat Draco, glaring at Ron from across the room. "As a matter of fact Weasley, you and Potter here might actually understand my reasoning for this… project."

If project was an appropriate term for how Draco had been occupying his time for the last year. He had slaved away in the darkness, hovering over old books and objects that would have peaked his interest as a youth, until he finally found the answer tucked away where he told himself he'd never touch it.

The Bubotuber pus was edging its way back to Draco's throat at the prospect of revealing what he had done. But who would blame his moments of weakness or those of sympathy and grief.

"Look, I can't go to the Magical Law Enforcement directly, they won't give me a chance to explain myself!"

"And who says we're going to let you explain yourself, Malfoy? Besides, I think we've helped you enough. We saved your arse after Crabbe's stunt with the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement!"

Only too well did Draco remember that night and at these words, his face twitched uncomfortably. This did not go unnoticed by Harry who was watching the former Slytherin carefully. Perhaps he realized that it was something besides the urge to hex Ron at his remarks that lingered in the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. Regret, sadness, or even fear.

Frowning slightly, Harry cut in before Ron could continue with his tirade. "What did you do?"

Draco swallowed hard, the smell of his own blood and Harry's soiled carpet were more overpowering than before. "I brought him back, Potter. I brought him back."

_**A/N:** Thank you for reading, please leave a review and take a Fred Weasley action figure (not doll) on the way out. *tosses action figures even though they are not relevant to my story*.  
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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed. The update look longer than I anticipated, but I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

_Chapter Two_

-::-

"As in… from the dead?"

He really couldn't be that daft.

"No Weasley, from Australia!" spat Draco. His sickness and uncomfortable demeanor was momentarily lost. "Yes from the dead."

Harry and Ron exchanged the same suspicious glance and Harry's hand instinctively flew to the wand in his pocket. His breathing became almost as staggered as Draco's, blood pulsing through his body faster than the rain falling outside. "Who?" Harry asked.

"Crabbe," said Draco, barely hearing the word slip over his tongue as his heartbeat pounded in his ears.

The constriction in Harry's throat let up and he breathed a bit more evenly. But Draco's appearance did nothing to let up the feeling completely. There was something wrong.

Draco kept his eyes level with Harry's, trying to ignore Ron's gaping mouth until the latter spoke.

"Blimey Malfoy, what did you do that for?"

Again, jerking his head in the direction of the couch, Draco clenched his fists. "Oh I don't know. Maybe because he was my… friend!" he spat out venomously to the redhead, only noticing after that he'd faltered on the last word. Had he called Vincent Crabbe his friend? What had he said to him the night he died?

"Yeah and that bastard tried to bloody kill us!"

Ron started toward Draco furiously, stopped only by the ill-placed Prophets littering the floor and Harry's shielding charm.

Draco smirked. He was secretly thankful he was still able to rile Weasley so easily. It gave him an excuse to exercise the same condescending attitude he'd carried with him through his school years. It covered up any trace of weakness, and spitting out words towards Ron was better than appearing vulnerable and distressed over the mistake he had made.

The smirk melted into a scowl as his grey eyes caught sight of Harry's wand pointed at his chest. "What are you playing at, Malfoy? Crabbe's body was burned by the Fiendfyre. The Room of Requirement sealed itself afterwards."

"Which was such a shame," said Ron, harshly.

"I'm not playing at anything Potter! Crabbe is alive! I saw him with my own eyes! I brought him back with my own hands!"

"But how did you manage to –"

"Does it matter?" yelled Draco. "Yes, the Fiendfyre killed him! What matters right now is that he's alive and it went all wrong! _He_ went wrong!"

Harry's stomach tightened, picturing Crabbe akin to the Inferi he had encountered with Dumbledore, yet instead of wet and slimy from the depths of the cold sea, Crabbe's appearance would rival that of perhaps Dumbledore's blackened hand. The mental image was not one Harry wanted his mind to linger on and so he looked at Ron, who seemed to be harboring the same thoughts. That or something particularly unpleasant had positioned itself under his long freckled nose.

"So he looks like something Hermione might have burned while cooking, stomping around like some…"

"HE TRIED TO KILL ME!" Draco yelled, his heart thundering against his chest. He turned pale at his admittance.

"We should Floo the Ministry," announced Harry.

"No! Look Potter, when they find out what I've done they'll send me straight to Azkaban for dark magic!"

"Thought you said it was nothing illegal."

"I didn't bring him back to wreck havoc on everyone, to parade around someone brought back from the dead from the most sinister of ways as an object to display my talent in the dark arts! I took his body and managed to ignite life inside his body the only way I knew worked because he was my friend! I shouldn't have done it! I know that! But you are the only person who is going to understand." The last words were directed at Harry, almost pleadingly, and Draco felt the repulsion come over him for letting anything like that tumble out of his mouth. Though to say that the idea to bring glory back to the Malfoy name by a successful resurrection had not crossed his mind would be a lie. But the two wizards before him would not consent to help him, if they did agree, if they thought that was the only thing he had desired.

He'd forgotten what Crabbe had last said to him in the Room of Requirement, that he no longer took orders from him, vanished as he stared at the black stretch of wall that sealed them away from Crabbe and the Fiendfyre. Only remorse filled him, and it was because of that feeling that Draco began to feverishly work. It wasn't until Crabbe had opened bloodshot eyes that Draco began scheming of another use. Though the resurrection going wrong was not what Draco had anticipated, and seeing one of the few people he had trusted with vengeance in his eyes had struck Draco harder than the curse Crabbe had directed at his body.

Something between a snort and a scoff was heard from Ron's direction, but Draco let his grey eyes fall back to Harry's wand. "If we go back to the manor, I can explain everything."

"Not bloody likely," interrupted Ron. "We've got work to do. Borgin and Burke's is reopening in a week and the Ministry wants to investigate it. Though you were probably already aware." He gestured towards the papers that had tripped him. On the front page, in bold lettering, announced the shop's reopening and a picture of the shop engulfed in flames a year prior. "Besides, I don't fancy meeting up with your old mate, do you Harry?"

He shifted his gaze towards Harry, who was still looking at Draco. The dark circles and the unnatural skin coloring, was too similar to the Draco that Harry had hit with Sectumsempra years ago. Draco was ill, and something had caused it, something sinister of course. Crabbe's resurrection, if Draco did in fact achieve it, did not go properly. But how had he done it? It was highly unlikely that he'd managed to get his hands on the resurrection stone, for Harry himself couldn't remember which part of the forest he'd dropped it in. It was also not possible for the shadows from the stone to use a wand. Curiosity stirred inside Harry.

"You're sure he's at the manor? If he tried to kill you, how did you manage to escape?"

"He crashed into a bookshelf. My house-elf is watching him where he's currently bound."

"Alright we'll go," said Harry over a sputter that was Ron's protest. "But if this is some trick Malfoy or some other scheme, you'll be looking at Azkaban as clear as you're looking at me right now." Though there was no trace of evidence in Harry's voice that Draco would evade the prison completely.

The time to confront his mistake had finally come and, breathing deeply, Draco nodded and turned on the spot, the stench of blood and mud not completely leaving with him.

"Mental. Absolutely mental!" said Ron as he and Harry disappeared in the next instant.

-::-

Harry and Ron followed Draco, wands at the ready, as he led them through the hallways of Malfoy Manor. The tension was as heavy as the falling rain outside. Images of Dobby and memory of Hermione's screams haunted both Harry and Ron as they entered the cellar. However, the appearance of the room differed greatly to the night the Snatchers had brought them.

The room was filled with upturned tables, the counters were littered with books, and there was a large claw-footed bathtub, dirtied with mold and grime. "Been living in here have you, Malfoy?" said Ron, gesturing to the tub and the half-eaten sandwich forgotten on the table. Draco said nothing, only pushing past the mess to where Crabbe had been bound in the corner.

He froze suddenly, for what met his eyes was not Crabbe, bound by invisible ropes in the spot where he had left him. But his house-elf, dead upon the floor.

**A/N: Please review and let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is welcome.**


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